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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867300">Damn O’Driscolls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaesarTheUnshod/pseuds/CaesarTheUnshod'>CaesarTheUnshod</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arguing, Bitterness, Blood and Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Not the injury we’re all thinking of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:02:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,339</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaesarTheUnshod/pseuds/CaesarTheUnshod</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John rubbed tiredly at his eyes. </p><p>After stifling a yawn, he rested his chin in his hand. The Reverend and Miss Grimshaw had warned him to watch for signs of fever if he was going to sit with him. He stared at the bump in the blankets where he knew Arthur’s hand laid, his fingers occasionally twitching in his sleep. </p><p>John clenched his free hand into a fist to keep himself from reaching out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Marston/Arthur Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211598</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Damn O’Driscolls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This series is always a little harder for me to write. But it’ll pick up soon. Skipping a bit through time during the more important moments. Ya know, once these two idiots get their heads out of their asses.</p><p>Trigger Warning: There is a bit where there’s a physical description of a buckshot wound that Arthur sustains. </p><p>Take care of yourselves, my loves, and stay safe!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Goin’ huntin’?” </p><p>Drawing his beige morgan, Harold, up short, Arthur looked at the tree where they kept a watch on the trail up to camp at all times. “Yep,” Arthur replied shortly. Of course it was John fucking Marston’s turn on watch just when he was trying to slip out unnoticed as dawn was creeping through the trees.</p><p>John didn’t look at him, but plucked his cigarette from his lips to tap off the ashes. He had his rifle cradled in the crook of one arm as he leaned against the tree. The skin around his left eye was swollen and purple, and Arthur felt an involuntary sense of regret. </p><p>John spoke again, disdain evident in his voice, “Sean keep you <i>company</i> last night?”</p><p>Arthur growled, “It weren’t like that, and you know it.”</p><p>“Do I?” John shot back, finally looking up at him.</p><p>Arthur ground his teeth but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. </p><p>Marston, to his credit, seemed to have an inkling. His hard brown eyes softened slightly and he took a deep breath, “We should talk...about what happened,” </p><p>Arthur looked at John’s bruised eye, half shut. He felt another twinge of guilt but swallowed it down before shaking his head, “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about, Marston.”</p><p>“Goddamnit, why d’ya gotta be so stubborn,” John growled, exasperated, reaching up to rub tiredly at his eyes.</p><p>“‘Cause one of us has to be!” Arthur exclaimed. Too loud. Silence followed.</p><p>The two men stared each other down. John contemplated Arthur’s gaze for a long moment, watching as he glanced towards camp to make sure no one was around. Arthur wanted badly to look away, to lash out, but that would only draw more attention.</p><p>Finally, John seemed to have decided something. He lowered his head, took long drag of his cigarette and spoke quietly, “Is that why you hit me, Arthur? ‘Cause there ain’t nothin’ to talk about?” </p><p>“I hit you ‘cause you,” Arthur started but John cut him off in a calm, collected tone of voice, “You didn’t hit me before. When we were younger.”</p><p>“We were stupid.”</p><p>“I want you, Arthur, and I know you want me,” </p><p>“You don’t know nothin’ about what I want. Tell the others I’ll be back later.” With that, Arthur prompted Harold into a quick canter, right out of the trees. It took an unreasonable amount of restraint to keep from looking back. He heaved a sigh, determined to get some peace and lose himself a little on the hunt.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>Damn O’Driscolls…</i>
</p><p>A cart had crossed Arthur’s path while he was riding over the hills back to camp. Six of them. Two of them he thought he’d recognized from the shootout at Six Point Cabin. They had apparently finished licking their wounds, and had gathered up some buddies to get some payback.</p><p>Arthur sat heavily back against a tree, trying to catch his breath. Arthur hadn’t been able to outrun them, so he’d been forced to fight. They’d chased him and Harold. </p><p>The horse had been such a skinny, sorry sight back when Arthur had purchased him. But there was a good sheen to him now, a spring in his step and muscles about his body. The others may have teased him about spending money on him at first, as well as for naming a horse “Harold.” But they’d come around when they saw for themselves how Harold was able to haul ass at a moment’s notice, and carry heavy loads with the best of them. </p><p>Arthur had ridden Harold hard from the road, barely dodging around trees, thinking the O’Driscolls couldn’t easily follow. They’d made up for that low expectation with enthusiasm, crashing through trees and shooting every which way. With no other options, Arthur had thrown himself from Harold’s back, leaving the poor thing squealing after him. However, he’d listened when he’d been commanded to flee. </p><p><i>Good boy</i>, Arthur thought, wincing as he shifted his injured arm. One of the O’Driscolls had gotten close enough, or brave enough, during the shootout to tackle Arthur to the ground, laying his carbine over his throat. That particular O’Driscoll was lying still nearby, a knife buried between his ribs. </p><p>Arthur had gone down pretty badly, and he was sure that his shoulder was dislocated. His upper arm had a deep graze, cutting through his brown jacket. He’d ducked back behind the tree to avoid getting a bullet between the eyes, but not quick enough for his outer bicep. </p><p>There was a concerning pain on the left side of his back. It was wet and it hurt to breathe. He assumed that he’d taken a bullet in the back whilst he was fleeing, and a rib had stopped it. It felt like it was still in there, so he’d definitely need help with that. </p><p>Every movement of his right arm burned and sent shooting pain through his bones and muscles.</p><p>He waited a moment, clumsily undoing the kerchief around his neck with his left hand, listening for any movement. The countryside had gone eerily quiet in the late afternoon after the shootout. Any nearby wildlife had been spooked off. Arthur looped the kerchief around the gash on his arm and cinched it tight with his teeth to slow the bleeding.</p><p>Then he took a shallow breath and dug into his satchel to see if his whiskey had survived. The bag itself had taken a shot or two, and the leather was wet with some tonic or another. </p><p>The whiskey had miraculously made it through. Arthur downed a tonic and chased it with the burning liquid. Probably not wise, but damnit, he was in pain. He whistled for Harold, lowering the bottle. </p><p>There was no sound still.</p><p>It was then Arthur started to feel some worry in his gut. If Harold was too far away to hear him, he’d have to make his merry way back to camp by his ownself. He knew Harold had been grazed a couple of times while they’d been fleeing. He just hoped the horse was okay. </p><p>
  <i>He’ll find his way back, he always does.</i>
</p><p>Pushing himself carefully to his feet, Arthur began to walk back in the general direction of the trail. On the way, he picked up his hat wedged under the O’Driscoll he’d knifed. </p><p>He yanked it free and put it on his head, “I’ll take that.” He pulled his knife free from the corpse’s ribs, wiped it down on the shirt and slid it into the sheath on his belt. “And that, as well.” </p><p>Just as the trail came into view, Arthur leaned tiredly against a tree. He gave a hopeful whistle and closed his eyes for a moment to get his bearings. He’d been hurt worse than this before. But he’d already been feeling sorry for himself with the low buzzing headache from too much drink, the lingering discomfort from the interaction with Sean that morning, and then there was John...</p><p>There was the sound of concerned nickering and some quiet huffs against his face. Arthur peeled open his eyes, tipped up his hat and there was Harold. The small horse was nickering, nervously pawing at the ground in front of him.</p><p>“Hey, boy,” Arthur groaned. Harold’s ears immediately perked forward and he nuzzled at him. Arthur patted and stroked the horse’s face, leaving bloody fingerprints. “Heyyy, boy, good boy. Am I glad to see you.” </p><p>Harold nickered over and over. “You okay, boy?” The sun was beginning to set, turning the clouds pink and orange. There were two concerning blood trails down Harold’s flank and hind leg, but he didn’t seem to be holding himself any different than normal. The doe he’d killed earlier that afternoon was still miraculously tied securely onto the horse. The large rabbit and the turkey were still hanging from either side of the saddle. </p><p>“Hung onto dinner, didja?” Arthur smiled, patting Harold’s face. With a sigh, he pushed off the tree and pressed his face into the pale mane. “Thanks for comin’, boy.” He stroked at his neck, trying to muster the resolve to heave himself into the saddle. He felt nauseated from the pain.</p><p>Camp wasn’t too far out. About three and a half miles. He could make it, no problem. </p><p>“Alright, boy, let’s go home.” Arthur drawled and mounted up, jostling his dislocated shoulder in the process. The wound in his back felt like fire and he ached for more whiskey, or laudanum or something. And most of all, he just felt tired. Too much on his mind and an afternoon full with killing he never relished always left him exhausted. </p><p>He patted Harold’s neck, “Let’s go, boy.”</p>
<hr/><p>Arthur ground out a scream at the audible crack of his shoulder sliding back into place. His teeth bore hard into the leather belt the Reverend had placed between his teeth. </p><p>“Jesus Christ!” He hissed, his words somewhat muffled as his arm was carefully worked to be sure everything was as it should be. </p><p>“Alright. Let’s have a look at that gunshot wound then.”</p><p>Gingerly, and with John’s help, Arthur slid out of his shirt. The older man kept himself from glaring and snapping at the younger, who was silently just trying to help. Or hover, depending on how one looked at it. At least the others had the decency to shoot him worried looks from a distance. </p><p>“For god’s sake, Arthur Morgan!” Miss Grimshaw exclaimed as she brought hot water and clean linens. </p><p>John bit his lip at the sight of the big man’s back. It wasn’t just one hole. There were many holes made by buckshot. Each red and swollen with the black of the shrapnel visible and blood trailing down his skin. It made his stomach turn.</p><p>“Don’t you worry, Miss Grimshaw, I’ve had worse,” Arthur mused but then hissed in pain as the Reverend began cleaning the wounds. </p><p>After the long process of digging all of the buckshot out of his back and stitching closed the gash on his arm, the laudanum was kicking in. John helped the Reverend get Arthur to his cot where they carefully laid him out to sleep. The Reverend left, but John did not. </p><p>He pulled down the rolled canvas walls, sat on a crate and didn’t move. Not even when the morning light began to peekover the hill outside. Arthur slept as peacefully as one could. A grimace of pain taking over his slumbering features at any muscle twitch. </p><p>John rubbed tiredly at his eyes. </p><p>After stifling a yawn, he rested his chin in his hand. The Reverend and Miss Grimshaw had warned him to watch for signs of fever if he was going to sit with him. He stared at the bump in the blankets where he knew Arthur’s hand laid, his fingers occasionally twitching in his sleep. </p><p>John clenched his free hand into a fist to keep himself from reaching out.</p><p>They’d been in some hard shootouts before. Arthur frequently came out of them barely hurt. To see him this way? He had to have been caught by surprise, and outnumbered. </p><p><i>If he’d’a asked me come…</i> John thought, swallowing hard. He might have gotten shot up just as bad, maybe even killed. Who knew? But at least then, Arthur wouldn’t have been alone. </p><p>
  <i>Coulda lost him.</i>
</p><p>“Goddamnit, Arthur,” John murmured, hiding his face in his palm, feeling his eyes burn.</p><p>“Why you sore at me now, Scarface?” Came an almost silent rasp, dry with sleep.</p><p>John lifted his head. “Arthur?” </p><p>The man in question peeled open his tired blue eyes and heaved a sigh. “Those damn O’Driscolls.” Then the bastard moved to sit up. John’s heart jumped to his throat as he laid a hands upon his shoulder and pressed him back down. The pained wince on Arthur’s face made him feel nauseous. </p><p>“Hold on, there,” John started, “You ain’t in any condition to,”</p><p>“Yeah, I gathered that, Marston.” Arthur groaned, “I feel all bound up like a bank teller on the wrong end of a robbery.” John knew he was indicating the bandages that were wrapped snugly around his upper torso, protecting the buckshot wounds and keeping his arm immobilized. </p><p>John poured some water into a coffee cup, and scooted the crate closer to the cot. “Here, drink this,” Gently, he lifted Arthur’s head and began to pour water into his mouth. </p><p>“Slow down, ya damn fool, don’t drown me,” Arthur coughed, wincing again as it strained his fractured rib and sore shoulder. John apologized, easing up. Arthur drank three cups. </p><p>“Should I get Miss Grimshaw? The Reverend?” John asked worriedly, looking over Arthur’s pained grimace. </p><p>The man sighed quietly, closing his eyes, “No, I’m just tired, don’t need everyone fawnin’ over me.”</p><p>“Okay...You hungry?” </p><p>Arthur opened his eyes again, looking sleepily at John, “Now that you mention it,”</p><p>Before he could continue, John stood up, “I’ll go get you somethin’.” He left the tent and headed for Pearson’s wagon. He had to step over Uncle’s blackout drunk form on the ground when he got there. The rest of the camp was just beginning to stir. </p><p>Hosea was standing nearby, drinking coffee, silently watching John rummage around in the canned goods for something Arthur could stomach. Something good. </p><p>The old man approached, and asked quietly, “He’s awake?” </p><p>Pausing, John looked down at him. He always seemed to know exactly what was going on before anyone else. He glanced over at Pearson who had just put out some hot oatmeal. He at least made it better than the bar in Valentine. It was cheap, practically horse feed. But if you put some canned fruit or honey in it, it wasn’t so bad. </p><p>John selected a can of peaches and answered quietly, “Yeah. He is.” </p><p>“How is he?” The old man asked, following along as John opened the peaches, picked up a bowl and ladled out a serving of oatmeal. </p><p>“No fever as far as I can tell. He’s still in pain, but he don’t wanna be bothered none just yet.” John grunted, slipping a clean-looking spoon into the bowl. Hosea nodded, looking at John’s full hands. “You’ve been up all night, son. I can sit with him while you get some rest?” </p><p>John held the food close and replied a bit too sharply,  “No.”</p><p>Hosea seemed to consider John for a long moment. He recognized the expression from his earliest days with the gang as a kid. Hosea always worked things out, always knew how John was feeling, always knew if he was hiding something. He was a grown man now, just shy of 29. But he always felt 12 years old again whenever Hosea looked at him like that.</p><p>“I’ll bring over some coffee, then, and try to keep the others from disturbin’ him.” </p><p>John breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The old man had to know more than they ever talked about. But he never seemed perturbed by it, not really. </p><p>Hosea did him the kindness of walking purposefully over to the percolator in which Pearson had coffee steeping by the fire. This left John free to make his way back to Arthur’s tent. After ducking inside, he found that the man in question had fallen back asleep.</p><p>Gingerly, he set down the peaches and oatmeal, and sat down on the crate again. Arthur looked better than he had the previous night, all pale and covered with blood. He had wriggled his free arm from the blankets and it was resting bagainst his chest. It rose and fell with the deep breathing of sleep. </p><p>With a gentleness that he often couldn’t share, John reached out and brushed Arthur’s hair back. “Hey,” he murmured, stroking his fingers through the blond wisps. “Brought you some breakfast, don’t want it to get cold, now.”</p><p>Arthur took in a long breath, breaching sleep. His eyes opened slowly, and he stared up at John. His hand lingered softly in Arthur’s hair for a long, silent moment before he slowly pulled it back. Neither of them said anything about it. Instead, John reached for the peaches and spooned a few into the steaming oatmeal. </p><p>Arthur looked at the bowl and tsked. “Pearson’s outdone himself.”</p><p>John reached out to cradle Arthur’s head like he did when he’d given him water. In turn, the man weakly batted his hand away. “I can feed myself.”</p><p>“You can’t even sit up!” John berated. </p><p>Arthur gripped the edge of the cot, “I’m feeding my own damn self, Marston. You’re not my nursemaid. I shudder to think what damage you can do with a hot meal, let alone a mug of water.” </p><p>John watched Arthur grimace in pain as he tried to pull himself up. “At least let me help,” the two of them paused. Arthur panted quietly for a moment and nodded, “Fair enough.” </p><p>With that John got up from the crate and with firm hands under Arthur, slowly pulled the man up to sit. He got him leaned against the side of his wagon, supporting him. </p><p>A moment later, Hosea ducked into the tent with coffee and oatmeal for John. After checking quietly in with Arthur, he excused himself, but not before telling him, “Be nice. He stayed up all night watching over you.”</p><p>A long, uncomfortable silence followed, the only aound came from outside the tent and their spoons scraping in their bowls.</p><p>Eventually, John heaved a pained sigh, trying to bolster his resolve. “Arthur...I know we don’t lead the safest of lives...but this…” </p><p>Arthur paused, setting his spoon down in the near empty bowl. </p><p>“This scared me. I couldn’t bear it if...Arthur, I know you don’t wanna hear this, but, I need you to just listen,”</p><p>“John,” Arthur growled in warning.</p><p>“I think I love you.” </p><p>The silence exploded between them like a stick of dynamite. The air felt empty, and heavy at the same time. John’s heart beat insistently, and his mouth felt real dry. Arthur didn’t look at him. His mouth was pressed into a hard grimace, and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.</p><p>So John continued, quietly and evenly, “I think I’ve loved you for a real long time. In different ways, sure. Ever since I was a boy. You taught me so much, stuck by me even when you coulda just left me behind...I...I know you think that a feller can’t love another feller,” </p><p>Arthur stiffened further.</p><p>“But I think you’re wrong. I know you think what we did when we were younger was foolish and ‘unnatural,’ but I think you’re wrong. Fellers do it all the time. Women too. Abigail told me.”</p><p>“You told Abigail?!” Arthur hissed between his teeth, seizing the front of John’s shirt in his free hand. </p><p>“I didn’t, Arthur, honest I didn’t!”</p><p>“But she already knew didn’t she? Because she’s clever and you’re a goddamned idiot! John Marston, if I weren’t all trussed up like a turkey, I swear I would beat you within an inch of your life right now.” Arthur growled, shoving at John one-handed. He winced in pain, and gave up. Instead, he settled on a good cuff on the side of the head.</p><p>It didn’t hurt John much, and Arthur was finally still. He was afraid if the man moved too much, he’d hurt himself. More than he already did at least. </p><p>Arthur leaned back against the wagon, breathing hard with pain and anger. His fist clenched in his lap. He looked like a trapped animal with his hackles raised. Meant to strike at anything that approached. John didn’t think he could push him much more. He hadn’t quite been threatened with death just yet, so that was something.</p><p>“I want you, Arthur. In any way that you’ll let me. I love you and I want you safe.” John said quietly, looking down at the bowls and spoons that had spilled on the ground. He picked them up, and stood. “I’ll leave you alone for a while.” </p><p>And without a backward glance, he ducked out of the tent.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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